


Stray Italian Greyhound

by julllian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background TimSasha, Canon-Typical Pining, High School AU, Kid Fic, M/M, Slow Burn, and other hijinks, eventual dasira and wtgfs, jon and martin Are Gay and Do Crimes, the gang fights monsters together, the og archives crew get together for a group project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julllian/pseuds/julllian
Summary: this chapter is mostly exposition and characterization, we'll get more into plot next week!
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 31
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this chapter is mostly exposition and characterization, we'll get more into plot next week!

Martin freezes up. To clarify, Martin freezes up, like, in general, but it’s also at this specific moment that he finds himself far too anxious to actually do anything. His classmates buzz around him, chatting excitedly with each other, and Martin just sits at his desk, damn near paralyzed with awkwardness. He’d been excited, when Mrs. Young had announced she was assigning a group project in place of the mid-term exam. Martin likes working in groups, and though he’s clever enough to make it into honors English, he’s never had the best luck with traditional exams. It was significantly less exciting, however, when she’d explained that the students would be choosing their own groups. Martin doesn’t exactly… well, his social life leaves something to be desired. He’s much too shy to fit in with the more popular crowd, and he’s never felt smart enough to hang out with the nerdier groups at his secondary school. Sure, he makes pleasant conversation with plenty of people, but they’re not really anything more than acquaintances. It’s somewhat depressing to think that in the entire class, he’s probably the only student who dreads hearing the words “you’re allowed to work with your friends”.

It had to be a group project, didn’t it. There are few things Jon hates more- it’s up there with spiders and talking about his emotions. He lets out a breath, halfway between a sigh and a scoff, and pulls out his textbook, flipping through to the assigned chapters. Getting started now is certainly a better use of his time than whatever thinly-veiled socialising the other students are doing to choose their groups, and Jon is fairly isolated from their chatter where he sits in the back corner of the classroom. He really should move closer to the board; his eyesight is terrible, but he knows he probably won’t say anything. He doesn’t even bother to correct people when they call him “Jonathan”. Jon’s eyes flit around the room, and he does little to hide the disappointed impatience in them. His eyes catch on a boy in the other corner, still sitting at his desk, that Jon doesn’t recognise from any of his other classes. He’s tall and broad, the kind of stature that might be intimidating if the boy wasn’t scrunched up in his seat and staring resolutely at his own hands. He has curly, short-cropped hair and warm brown eyes. It isn’t until those eyes glance up and meet his own that Jon realises he’s been staring, and he quickly pulls his gaze back down to the textbook.

“Do you want to join our group?”

Martin has to shake himself out of his own thoughts, and as he processes the question he almost does a double take.

“You- me?” He splutters.

“Erm, yeah.” Martin has to hold back a smile when he looks up to see Tim and Sasha, probably the most popular and smartest people in the class, respectively. It’s a wonder the two of them haven’t found a group yet, but Martin certainly isn’t complaining. “Me an’ Sash wanted to make sure we could work together, so we’re looking for a couple other members,” Tim explains.

“Yes!” Martin blurts out. “I mean- yeah, thanks for asking.” He waits for one of them to object, half-expecting it to be some sort of prank, but Sasha just smiles kindly while Tim gives a big thumbs-up. Maybe this project won’t be so bad after all.

“Okay!” Says Sasha, her ever-present smile still spread across her face, “Now we just need one more person.”

Martin has seen Jonathan around a few times, and he might be the strangest secondary schooler Martin’s ever met. 90% eye roll and 10% real boy, Jonathan has deep circles under his eyes and a permanent scowl. His hair is long, but not in the shaggy, greasy, vaguely-mullet-y way a few of the other boys wear it--Jonathan keeps his hair in a neat bun at the back of his head. Martin had actually assumed he was an older kid that had been held back or something, but one scathing correction to the teacher’s instructions shut him right up. Jonathan is wickedly smart. And he’s snooty as hell about it.

“You want me to join your group?” Jonathan asks skeptically, blinking up at them from under his eyelashes.

“Um. Yes?” Martin responds. It’s not fair that someone so short can be so intimidating. Jonathan considers the proposal, apparently weighing the pros and cons of two extremely unpleasant options.

“Fine,” he says finally, executing a dramatic sigh and an equally exaggerated eye roll. “Thank you, I suppose,” he adds dismissively.

As soon as Tim, Sasha, and Martin invite Jon to be in their group, he begins to apply the two universal truths of group projects, as discovered through years of public schooling: 

  1. The other members are not likely to add anything to the project except delays, so it’s best to push them away and do most of the work himself.
  2. They probably already dislike him.



Jon has some hope for Sasha, who seems fairly serious about the whole thing, so he'll have to at least attempt some level of civility with her. As for the others, though, Jon has very little hope of any meaningful contributions.

“Right, Mrs. Young says we need a group leader. Does anyone want to do that.” Jon says, cutting off whatever non-project-related drabble Tim was going on about. There’s a few seconds of silence.

“Okay, I’ll be the leader.” Jon states matter-of-factly, when it’s clear that no one else is going to speak up. Then, so the others don’t think he’s too arrogant, he adds, “It doesn’t actually mean anything. It basically just gives me a bit more work to do.”

They fall into something of a rhythm then, Tim, Sasha, and Martin trading banter and Jon hunched over his textbook until the class period ends. Jon takes everything home, saying something or other about how it’ll be easier to have everyone’s work in one place, but really he just wants a chance to double-check Martin and Tim’s portions. He’s almost glad he was assertive enough to become the leader, as all his group members seem to take him fairly seriously. Jon doesn’t like controlling people, or being in charge, but it’s certainly better than being controlled. Maybe this project won’t be so bad after all.


	2. Please, Not Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for some light internalized homophobia/anxiety, but it's all dealt with pretty quickly

The sun is just beginning to set when Jon finally gets around to reading through his group’s work. One glance at the thick stack of paper, as well as the other assignments he has to finish, tells him it’s going to be a long night. But then again, that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary for Jon. His grandmother used to admonish him for staying up so late, but once he told her he was studying, she laid off. He likes to think that he can handle the late nights, that the lack of rest doesn’t affect him, but honestly, Jon is exhausted. He just learned to put up with it. While other students in a similar predicament might have discovered things like, say, sleep, Jon discovered the stash of instant coffee in the cupboard under the sink and has been steadily working through it ever since. And it’s fine, really, Jon thinks as he pulls out his textbook and begins scanning Tim’s paper for errors. It’s not like he would get much sleep anyway.

Jon steadily makes his way through Tim and Sasha’s writing, trying to edit them as discreetly as possible. His eyelids are heavy and drooping by the time he gets to Martin’s. It’s like he’s drunk, or at least, it’s like what Jon imagines being drunk is like. He hasn’t gotten the chance to find out. Regardless, he’s nearly delirious with exhaustion when he finally pulls out Martin’s paper.

It strikes him, first and foremost, how nice the handwriting is. It looks like it could belong to a girl, all round and loopy with little un-shaded circles above the “i”s, though Jon has never really understood how handwriting could be feminine or masuline. He finds himself staring at it, not even reading the words, just letting his eyes unfocus and glaze over the page, imagining Martin’s hands carefully placing each syllable. He begins reading, and the writing is- wow, the writing is unexpectedly good. Of course the writing is good, Jon reminds himself, it’s an honors English class. But still.

They’re supposed to be doing a presentation on- on… Shakespeare’s Scottish tragedy (Jon knows that the curse is just a coincidence, obviously, but better safe than sorry), and he’s given Martin the task of analysing scene 5, act 5, in which Macbeth (whoops) hears of his wife’s passing. Honestly, Jon hates the play, and thinks that Shakespeare did a very bad job of eliciting any sympathy for the main character, but clearly Martin believes otherwise. He’s written about the deep grief Macbeth must feel, about the terrible realisations he has just before his death. It feels like a violation, almost, like an invasion of privacy. It says as much about Martin as it does about the scene in question, and Jon is a lot less interested in learning about the play than he is about his group member.  _ He must be so empathetic _ , Jon thinks absently,  _ to be able to write like that _ . He finishes the paper, then reads it again, and again, as the night grows darker around him.

Martin closes his bedroom door and turns around to lean back against it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He loves his mother, but… well… she can be difficult. After a moment, Martin opens his eyes and pushes himself off of the door, setting his bag down at the foot of his bed. He rifles around in it for a moment before he finds his poetry journal and pulls it out, settling on top of the covers to write. He lets his mind wander, running over the day’s events and waiting for something to jump out at him. Martin’s thoughts keep coming back to Jonathan, to his smooth, dark skin, to his long, soft-looking hair. To his eyes, sharp and tired and curious all at once. He wishes he could see those eyes up close, and count all the lines in their dark irises, and- and Martin knows he shouldn’t want that. It’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with, the deep longing tainted with guilt.  _ No _ , he reminds himself,  _ no, this is’t wrong. It’s fine. _ He repeats his little list in his head:  _ Walt Whitman, Frank O’Hara, William Shakespeare _ . All of those people had been like him, had loved like him, so how could it be wrong? He clings to that logic like a lifeline. Martin takes a deep breath. Well. The great poets of the past aren’t going to help him with his massive crush on his classmate, that’s for sure.  _ Oh god, _ Martin thinks,  _ I have a crush on Jonathan _ .

Jon wakes up the next morning slumped over his desk, his glasses pressing harsh red lines into his face. His neck aches, but it’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep over an assignment. It is, however, Jon notes with growing annoyance, the first time he’s fallen asleep reading the same essay over and over again like some frail Victorian maiden with a letter from a suitor. How could he let himself waste so much time? Jon scrambles to get ready, throwing on his uniform and shoving the papers into his backpack. He’s very careful not to wrinkle Martin’s paper.

Jon rushes out the door without breakfast and takes the apartment complex’s stairs two at a time, tumbling out onto the street and beginning the short walk to school. He thinks about Martin as he walks. It seems that Martin is, Jon thinks with frustration, just about the only thing he can think about right now. His hands, how they seem to intertwine when he gets nervous, his lips, how he mutters softly to himself when he’s writing. How Jon would like to- oh.  _ Oh. _ That’s- that’s interesting, albeit somewhat inconvenient. Okay, it’s actually very inconvenient. Martin almost certainly does not like him back- Jon’s only known him for a day, but he seems to be pretty normal, meaning he probably doesn’t even like Jon as a friend. Which- which is fine. It won’t be a problem, Jon tells himself. He’s already very good at not expressing his feelings, so he’s got lots of practise for keeping this particular secret. It’ll be fine. He just won’t tell anyone.

The worst part, Martin quickly discovers, is not telling anyone. He doesn’t have an overabundance of friends, but even if he did, there’s no way he could confide in them about his crush. But everywhere he looks, he sees people talking, gossiping, laughing, and there’s a part of him that so desperately wants to join in.

“Helloooo? Earth to Martin!” Martin is jerked out of his musings by the now-familiar voice.

“Oh! Hi Tim,” he responds. They’re in the lunchroom; Martin has begun to eat with Tim and Sasha, though Sasha is out sick today.

“You’re like a million miles away,” Tim says, “What’re you thinking about?” Martin blushes and looks at the ground.

“Um, nothing.” He mumbles. Tim raises an eyebrow.

“That didn’t look like ‘nothing’,” he says with an evil grin. Martin blushes harder. “ _ I _ think you’re thinking about-” Tim glances around exaggeratedly, as if searching for eavesdroppers- “a  _ certain someone _ .”

“Wh-what? No, Tim, no, I-”

“ _ Don’t _ lie to me, Martin Blackwood!” Tim declares dramatically, and maybe Martin can let himself enjoy this, just a little bit. “I can read you like an open book. Now tell me: who’s the lucky lady?” Martin feels his breath hitch. He could easily lie and say he likes some girl in their class; despite Tim’s accusations he’s quite good at lying when he tries to be. But Martin doesn’t  _ want  _ to lie to Tim. He’s started to think of him as a friend, the first one he’s had in a long time. He can’t tell Tim the truth, either, or he’ll surely stop talking to Martin.

“I- I can’t tell you,” He decides finally.

“Fiiiine,” Tim groans, “Will you at least tell me if I guess correctly?” Martin considers for a moment. There’s no way Tim could guess all the girls in their school before he gets bored of trying to figure it out.

“Yes,” he says carefully, “go ahead.”

“Sarah?”

“No”

“Lucy?”

“No”

“Grace?”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Sophie?”

“No”

“This is  _ impossible _ .” Tim whines. They’re walking in the hallway now, after the remaining fifteen minutes of lunch had been consumed by Tim guessing random names.

“Feel free to stop,” Martin offers.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Tim asks, “do I know her or something?”

“T-that’s not a guess,” Martin stammers.

“Aha! So I do know her!”

“Wait! I didn’t say that!”

“Alright,” Tim says, ignoring Martin’s protests. “The only class you and I have together is English, so if you know that I know her, she’s gotta have that class too.” Martin feels his heart rate speed up. Tim thinks for a moment. “They’re in our group, aren’t they? For the project?” The ambiguous pronoun there does not escape Martin’s notice.  _ Oh god _ , he thinks,  _ here it comes _ .

“Y-yes-” he croaks, choking back panic.

“Oh, Martin, I hate to tell you this, but Sasha and I actually-”

“It’s not Sasha.” Martin interrupts, his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t want to see the expression of disgust on Tim’s face.

“Finally fell for my dashing looks and wicked sense of humour, did you?” Tim teases. Martin shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers, without opening his eyes, “No, it’s not you either.”

“Wait- really?” Tim asks in disbelief, “This isn’t a joke? You’re serious?” And here it is- the end of the line, the worst-case-scenario. There’s no backing down now, and Martin tries desperately not to cry.

“Yes,” he says, “I’m serious.” There’s a beat of silence. He braces himself for the worst.

“Martin…” Tim begins carefully. Then: “You can do SO much better than Jonathan Sims!” Martin opens his eyes, lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling hesitant relief start to grow in his stomach.

“What?” He says, “You- you really don’t care?”

“About you being gay? No,” Tim replies dismissively, “About you having a crush on Mr. ‘Four-Eyes-And-Each-One-Is-More-Sunken-Than-The-Last’? Well, Martin, all I can say is that I’m not mad, just disappointed,” he smiles. Martin laughs, a mixture of mirth and adrenaline making him giddy.

“You realise this is totally going to suck,” Tim says jokingly, “You two are going to spend so much time together; I’d be worried about him finding out if he wasn’t so damn thick.” Martin sighs contentedly, his mind already drifting to spending time with Jonathan.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “It’s going to be awful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i PROMISE there will be actual jm dialogue next chapter. you just gotta enjoy the slow burn! the next chapter will come out tuesday, may 26.


	3. You Had to Come Along, Didn't You

Things are going well for Jon. The English project is beginning to wrap up, and he’s managed to be as brusque as possible with Martin in class while very inconspicuously avoiding him at all other times of the day. He’s sure Martin doesn’t suspect a thing. It is getting harder, though. Jon almost gets cornered by Martin one day in the hallway, and he has to dart into a random classroom so he isn’t spotted. Still. He's doing very well, all things considered.

That is, he's doing well until Martin approaches him while he's packing up after class, places a hand on his shoulder, and he very abruptly isn't.

"M- ah- Martin?" Jon stutters, not-so-subtly brushing Martin's hand away, "Did- did you need something."

"Erm, I was just wondering if- where do you sit at lunch?" Martin asks in a cheery, albeit uncertain tone. Jon narrows his eyes in suspicion, but he answers the question.

"The library. Why?"

"Oh! Well, I thought, maybe- Tim and Sasha and I usually sit together, and- um- you could join us today? I-if you wanted?" Martin stammers. Jon considers for a moment.

“No,” he says flatly, “Sorry, I told Mr. Leitner I would do more recordings today... But,” he adds generously, “I suppose you could come with me if you really wanted to. It won’t be very interesting, though.” To Jon’s surprise, Martin’s shy smile breaks out into a wide grin.

“Sure!” he says, excited in a way that doesn’t suggest he was just asked to sit around and watch Jon read a book into a tape recorder.

“Oh,” Jon replies. “Alright.”

Jon leads the way down the corridor, ignoring the slight fluttering in his stomach. He doesn’t say much, and keeps his eyes on the tiled floor, catching snatches of dialogue from the various students around him. He doesn’t realise one of those bits of conversation is directed at him until Martin is waving a hand in front of his face and looking at him with something like concern. 

“Oh, ah, sorry,” Jon says, shaking off the stupor as if it’s a stay hair, “must have- have spaced out.” Martin shrugs, and the worry on his face melts away.

“That’s fine,” he says with a smile, “I was just going to ask you- what exactly do you record?” Oh, right. Jon hadn’t actually told Martin what they’d be doing.

“You know the- the cassette tapes we have in the library? The ones that are like- they’re audio versions of the books.” Martin nods. “Well, I’m the one who makes them.” Jon finishes, unable to keep just a tiny hint of pride out of his voice.

“That’s pretty cool,” Martin says, and it’s so surprisingly genuine that Jon has to look away to hide his blush.

“I mean- it’s not- I- you really think so?” Jon finally manages to stutter out. Martin just hums an affirmative, and the two keep walking.

When they arrive, the library is quiet and empty, with all the students gone to lunch. Jon walks around the checkout counter, dropping his bag on the floor and going in search of the tape recorder. When he finds it, he grabs a blank tape and sits on the floor, leaning against the back of the counter and gesturing vaguely for Martin to do the same. Jon glances at the book that’s been set out for him and scoffs.

“Damn. It’s another one of  _ these _ ,” he tells the recorder. Then, to Martin, “They  _ do _ know this is a secondary school library, don’t they?” Martin shrugs. “Nothing to be done, I suppose,” Jon says. He clears his throat, then, in the driest voice he can muster, begins. “ _ Goosebumps: Welcome to Dead House _ , by R.L. Stine. Chapter one.”

The thing about Jonathan Sims is that he tries very, very hard not to care. Martin notices it, the way he acts so nonchalant and dismissive, but closes off whenever he lets anything remotely personal slip. It’s like he doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want to be known, and in that way, Martin thinks, the two of them are quite similar. Well, Jonathan still hasn’t told Martin much about his deep, dark secrets, but he’s at least stopped avoiding Martin since the library. He even offers Martin a small smile and a wave when they run into each other on the school grounds one afternoon.

“Hello!” Martin says, chipper as ever. Jonathan is leaning against the brick wall of the school, his nose buried in a book. He nods in acknowledgement. “Aren’t you supposed to be in P.E. right now?” Martin asks, more as a conversation starter than out of any real accusation. After all, it would be a bit hypocritical if Martin were to admonish Jonathan for skipping when he’s doing the exact same thing.

“I guess so,” Jonathan shrugs, “I haven’t gone all year, though.” And, well, Martin knows how that is, so he doesn’t say anything back, just joins Jonathan to lean against the wall.

“What are you reading?” Martin asks. Jonathan holds up his book so that Martin can see the front cover, which reads:  _ Silent Witnesses: A History of Forensic Science _ . “Oh!” Says Martin, haltingly, “Is that… for a class?” Jonathan keeps his gaze steadily fixed on the ground.

“Ah- no, it’s- it’s actually pretty interesting-” his eyes brighten, just a little- “apparently there was so much theatricality tied up in the court system back in- in Victorian times, that the most well-respected medical examiners might- might as well have been charlatans,” he explains, suddenly animated, “Which- I mean, I couldn’t imagine testifying against someone without- you know, without being certain. Without  _ knowing… _ ” Jon trails off for a moment, apparently lost in thought, then shakes his head. “Sorry, I- I’m rambling.” And yeah, Martin doesn’t really care about 19th Century court proceedings, but just hearing about them in Jonathan’s voice, with all his inflections and interjections…

“It’s alright, I don’t really mind, Jonathan,” Martin assures him. Jonathan worries his bottom lip between his teeth, as if wondering whether to say something, and then,

“Jon,” he says softly, like maybe Martin wasn’t really supposed to hear.

“What?”

“I- uh, you can call me Jon. If you want.” He says, and if Martin didn’t know him so well he might have said Jon was blushing.

“Okay,” Martin replies, a little breathless. Jon lifts his eyes to look at Martin, and for a second, they lock eyes. “Jon it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed this, i'm not especially thrilled with this chapter but oh well. some notes:  
> -FINALLY I CAN STOP CALLING HIM JONATHAN  
> -ah, that very specific queer feel of skipping pe  
> -the next chapter will come out tuesday, june 2


	4. I've Just Stopped Believing in Happy Endings

“Alright, Jon,  _ now _ can you tell me where we’re going?” Martin is trying not to be annoying, but Jon has just been  _ so  _ cryptic about this outing ever since he suggested it.

“It’s- ah- it’s a bit hard to explain,” he answers, “I suppose you weren’t  _ fully _ lying when you told your mother we were going to the library?” Case in point. It’s all Martin’s been able to think about today, after he agreed to meet Jon at his flat after school. Jon showed up with no uniform tie and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, which distracted Martin more than he cares to admit. But now the two of them are standing together on the tube, and he can feel his curiosity returning.

“Okay, this is where we need to get off,” Jon says, wrenching Martin out of his thoughts. Martin squints up at the automated display showing where they are and almost does a double take.

“ _ South Kensington _ ?” he asks, incredulous, “Why are we in South Kensington?!” Martin wouldn’t exactly consider himself poor, but he definitely can’t afford to hang out in a place like this. What’s more, Jon doesn’t really strike him as having that kind of money, either.

“It’s fine,” Jon replies, his face betraying no emotion, “We’re not going to buy anything.” At this point, Martin is feeling utterly and completely bewildered, so he just nods as if that answers any of his questions and follows Jon.

They walk for about five minutes, and despite Martin’s confusion, he’s enjoying himself. Jon seems to buzz with the quiet excitement that Martin has learned to notice in him, and he doesn’t stutter so much when they talk. Whatever mysterious thing Jon is going to show him, it’s clearly important, and Martin realises with a start that he might be the first person to see this side of Jon. He tries not to visibly blush at that thought. 

Martin’s musings are interrupted once more when Jon takes a sharp left down an alley, leading him around to the backs of the buildings. He stops when he comes to a door he seems to recognise, and abruptly drops to his knees, squinting at the lock. Wait, why would he-

“Jon, are we here to break into a building?!” Martin asks in a harsh whisper. Jon stares pointedly at the ground.

“Okay, I know how this looks,” he mumbles, “but there’s really nothing sinister going on here. I would explain it to you, but honestly I don’t think you’d believe me.” Martin takes a deep breath and asks himself, not for the first time, why he has to have a crush on Jon of all people.

“Alright,” he finally sighs, “let’s break into a building.” The grin that Jon gives him is so bright that he thinks maybe it will have been worth it.

Jon pulls two pins out of his bun, causing a few dark locks to fall down onto his shoulders. Martin suppresses the urge to tuck them back into place. Why did he agree to do this again? Jon sets to work picking the lock, explaining the mechanics behind the process as he does. He’s probably the only person who could make literal crime feel like a physics lesson, and Martin likes him so, so much for it. Finally, the lock makes a soft clicking sound, and Jon stands up to hold the door open for Martin. It’s not the perfect image of chivalry, given that Jon is a good eight centimeters shorter than Martin, and also that they could easily get arrested for this, but Martin supposes it will have to do.

Inside, the building is completely empty, and the windows are covered in white paper. It looks like whatever shop existed here in the past has gone out of business, and the property hasn’t been sold yet. Even with the nondescript, eggshell walls and the unfinished flooring, it’s clear that the building is old, and that it hasn’t changed much since it was built. One wall is even made of what Martin thinks might be original masonry. Wordlessly, Jon strides over to a corner and crouches down to examine the floor. Martin is shocked when, a few seconds later, he pulls up what looks to be a  _ piece of the floor _ . He quickly realises that it’s actually a trapdoor, and seriously, Martin would love to know how he managed to waltz into a goddamn mystery novel. Without any hesitation, Jon lowers himself into the trapdoor, indicating for Martin to follow.

“Are you- is this, you know, is this safe, Jon?” Martin asks with no small amount of trepidation. Jon frowns.

“Of course it is,” he answers, a little indignantly. “I’m not going to put you in any danger.” As much as Martin would like to trust Jon, that does make him breathe a little sigh of relief. “Besides,” Jon continues, “I’ve been here plenty of times before.”

Martin follows Jon down into the trapdoor, his feet finding the rungs of an old metal ladder. Well, this is it, he supposes. No going back now. Screwing up his courage, Martin begins to climb.

The heavy, late spring heat gives way to cool darkness as they descend and Martin feels a shiver run down his spine. After about six metres of climbing, he feels solid stone beneath him and hops off the ladder. The place- the tunnel, as Martin soon realises- is very dark and absolutely silent. Jon rifles around in the small bag he’s brought and produces two torches, handing one of them to Martin.

“Alright,” Jon says, turning on his torch. There are white chalk arrows drawn on the walls of the tunnel, and he begins to follow them with Martin quick behind. “I should probably explain some things.”

Jon looks straight ahead into the tunnel and tries not to wring his hands. Though he’d rather die than admit it to anyone but himself, he really is nervous. Taking Martin to the Archives is a risk, and he’s still not sure whether it’s going to pay off. The Archives are where Jon goes to get away from the world, and bringing a part of that world in with him… well, it has the potential to end very badly. Even so, Jon likes Martin. He  _ trusts _ Martin, even if he can’t put his finger on exactly why.

“Um, so, these tunnels- I don’t- ah- I don’t know much about them,” Jon stammers, trying to get his thoughts in some semblance of order, “I-I don’t know for sure who built them, though they link up with a lot of buildings designed by, by Robert Smirke,” he explains, “I’m not sure exactly how far they spread out, either, but from my investigations they run down to Milbank, at the very least.” And just like that, Jon settles into the comfortable rhythm of talking about the tunnels. He knows he’s probably boring Martin, but the other boy hasn’t said anything about it yet, so he keeps talking.

“Okay,” Jon says at last, hands poised over the rungs of the ladder that leads to the Archives, and even he has trouble stifling his excitement, “follow me.”

Jon has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at Martin’s look of wonder when he first sees the Archives. He pauses to let Martin get his bearings, and to take in the musty, old-paper smell that seems to pervade every inch of the Archives. In a moment of bravery, he snatches up Martin’s hand and leads him to the office labeled ‘ _ Head Archivist _ ’.

“Where are we?” Martin asks once the door is closed behind them, a little bit of awe creeping into his voice.

“We’re still underground,” Jon replies, “And I’m almost certain this place is abandoned. Do you remember that big explosion at the Magnus Institute, a few years ago? Killed two people- the head archivist and the head of the institute himself.”

“Yeah,” Martin answers, a bit hesitant, “Some sort of- problem with the gas, or something?” Jon nods enthusiastically.

“Well, the explosion destroyed the upper levels, but for some reason, the Archives remained intact,” Jon says in a hushed voice. He doesn’t know why he feels like he should whisper, but a part of him just knows this is a secret. A part of him is wary that something might be watching. “The thing is, it was reported as a gas leak,” He continues, “But it wasn’t. It was intentional.  _ And I know who the arsonist was _ .” Martin gasps.

“I- wh- how?!” he splutters, “Are you going to tell the police?” Jon scoffs.

“Probably not,” he says, “I highly doubt they would believe a sixteen-year-old.”

“Well, I believe you,” Martin says sincerely. Jon feels the tips of his ears redden, just a bit, and hopes Martin doesn’t notice.

“Oh, um, thank you, Martin.” he manages to croak out. “A- anyway, the reason I know about this stuff is they recorded everything on tape,” he explains, “And I think… there’s probably a completely rational explanation for it all,” Jon says primly. Then, a little sheepishly, he adds, “But, there were- there were weird things, going on in the Archives. I don’t know if I blame Gertrude Robinson for trying to burn them down.”

“Wait,  _ Gertrude Robinson _ ?” Martin exclaims.

“Um, yes, the head archivist- did you- did you know her?” A thought occurs to him about what usually happens in these situations, and he adds, “If you’re about to tell me that ‘Gertrude Robinson has been dead for thirty years’, I swear to god, Martin-”

“No! No,” Martin interrupts, “I wasn’t going to say that. It’s- it’s sort of the opposite, actually, I mean, I guess you could say that, you know-”

“Spit it out, Martin,” Jon snaps, impatient to hear what he has to say.

“Right, it’s just- well- I  _ do  _ know her. She lives next door to me. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she burned down a building, but she  _ definitely  _ isn’t dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! the next chapter will come out tuesday, june 9!


	5. Everything I Can't Afford to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for gunshots and explosions (not directly happening but replayed on tape)

“That- that’s impossible, she literally cannot still be alive! There is- there is  _ actually _ no possible way Gertrude Robinson isn’t dead!” Jon is hysterical, he  _ knows _ he’s being hysterical, but right now he’s a bit too preoccupied trying to wrap his head around the situation to care.

“Jon, calm down, I’m  _ sure _ there’s an explanation for-”

“Calm down?” Jon exclaims, “Martin, the papers said they found her body! I  _ heard her die _ ! It was all on tape!”

“Jon.” Martin says again, firmer this time, stilling Jon’s wildly gesticulating hands with his own. A moment later he seems to notice what he’s done and lets go, blushing a little. “Listen, we’re going to get to the bottom of this, but you need to relax.” Jon takes a deep breath, trying to quell some of the adrenaline flooding through his veins, and nods silently. “Okay. good.” Martin’s voice is steady, much steadier than Jon feels, though there’s a slight undercurrent of uneasiness to it. “Can I- would you mind showing me the tape where Gertrude… maybe died?” Jon nods again. The tape containing Gertrude’s… altercation with Elias Bouchard, as well as the cassette marked “For the Archivist” had been the first ones he’d found, probably because they were the last tapes recorded before the Institute’s destruction. He fishes around in the head archivist’s- in Gertrude’s- desk, and finds the tape labeled “Gertrude Fucking Dies” in Jon’s own shaky handwriting. He loads it into one of many tape players, steels himself, and presses play.

> “Gertrude.” A man’s voice- Elias- speaking with some mockery of fond familiarity.
> 
> “Damn.” 
> 
> “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
> 
> “I’d rather hoped you’d still be hampered with all the Spiral’s business. It’s their ‘Great Twisting’ at the moment, isn’t it?” Gertrude’s voice is calm and hard as iron, and Jon catches a flicker of recognition in Martin’s eyes.
> 
> “But I think we’ve both come to similar conclusions about  _ that _ . That’s why you’re here.”
> 
> “Yes. Shame, really. With a little more practice I could torch a building in half the time. I suppose there’s always room for improvement, and I’m only human. Unlike some of us.  _ Elias _ .”
> 
> “You were the one so…  _ insistent _ on staying that way.”
> 
> “And no doubt that makes my death a lot less complicated.”
> 
> “What exactly were you hoping to achieve here? Why not come at me directly instead of burning everything first?” Elias never loses his smug, snooty voice, but when he asks a question there’s a part of him that sounds almost desperate, like he would rip someone apart if the answer was written on the inside of their skin. Gertrude’s smile is audible when she says,
> 
> “Why don’t you find that one out for yourself?” There’s a sound like flint striking steel, immediately followed by the cocking of a gun. “I see. So you’re finally getting your hands dirty? I must have really caught you off guard.”
> 
> “I suppose we both underestimated each other. You haven’t been here long enough for me to Know you very well. Pity you couldn’t have lasted longer.”
> 
> “Oh, believe me, Elias,” Gertrude is laughing, but there’s a venom in it that still makes Jon shudder, no matter how many times he listens to the tape. “I could have been Archivist for decades, and you  _ never _ would have figured me out.” Her voice returns to its cool, brusque tone. “Besides, I’m not really in the mood to wallow over what could have been, so either shoot me, or-” Gertrude is cut off by a gunshot that rings throughout the room, seeming to echo far beyond the confines of the spinning wheels of tape. Even as the shot fades, the sound of static blooms over the recording, distorting Gertrude’s voice as she says, “Well. There it is. Thought it would hurt more.”
> 
> “Don’t try to hide from me,  _ Archivist _ ,” Elias snarls, his words punctuated by static, “I’m going to tear out every little secret you’ve ever kept, as I watch the life drain from your eyes.”
> 
> “You can have my secrets, Elias,” Gertrude says, somehow still managing to be unsettlingly calm even when every word could be her last. “I think you’ll find they’re  _ quite _ the perfect distraction.” Elias says nothing. It is up to Jon to imagine the shocked expression that crosses over his face. He utters no last words or final retorts. He doesn’t get the chance, because then there comes a noise that makes the gunshot sound like a pin drop. Jon knows that it’s the sound of an explosion that turned the Magnus Institute into rubble. Gertrude lets out a pained chuckle.
> 
> “Thank you, Agnes,” she whispers to herself, “I owe you one.” 

With that, the tape clicks off.

“So, that was… a lot.” Martin begins uneasily, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. Jon doesn’t respond, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. “Jon?” Still nothing. “Jon!”

“Ah! Er, yes, so it- I mean she  _ has _ to be dead, right?” Martin thinks for a moment. The voice on the tapes was definitely Ms. Robinson.

“Not… necessarily,” he answers finally, “people can get shot and still survive. Ms. Robinson is also blind, so it’s not like she got away unscathed. Also, she  _ has  _ mentioned someone called Agnes from time to time, so unless she’s a vengeful ghost-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin, ghosts... aren’t real,” Jon interrupts, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than Martin. “You’re right, I guess I hadn’t considered that she might be able to survive the bullet wound.” Martin tries not to preen over the tiny compliment. “That still only answers one of our questions, though.”

“Oh?” Martin questions, “I wasn’t aware that you- er- we had- had more questions?”

“Yes,” Jon confirms, already pulling another tape out of the desk drawer, “like I said, there was something very wrong with the Magnus Institute, the Archives in particular, something I really,  _ really _ want to uncover-” he pauses to meet Martin’s eyes- “And I think you can help me.” Martin stares at him for a moment, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his face. He was sure Jon wasn’t even going to like him, certain that he would learn too much or get too close and decide Martin isn’t worth being around anymore, and here Jon is asking him for help, asking him to stay. 

“I- I mean, i-if you want to help, that is, I know I- I just sort of roped you into this, I didn’t mean-”

“Jon.” Martin cuts him off. “Of course I want to help you.” Jon gives a small, shy smile that makes Martin’s heart ache, and places the new tape in the recorder.

“Um- here. You should listen to this.” He presses play, and the tape starts whirring.

> “Right. If you’re listening to this, it is likely that- no. Let’s not beat around the bush. If you’re listening to this, it means I’m dead. And you have been chosen to be my replacement as Head Archivist.” Ms. Robinson’s voice is still familiar, and hearing her say those words, even though he knows she’s alive, sends a shiver down Martin’s spine.
> 
> “Hopefully, this means you, Michael, but if someone else is hearing this, and Elias has made a different choice for some reason, then these words are still very much intended for you.
> 
> “Before I continue: it is very important to be  _ absolutely  _ clear this is not a joke. Nor is it any sort of prank, or game. Your colleagues have not convinced me to record this as an attempt to...  _ haze  _ you. This is completely serious. And very, very important for you to know.
> 
> “If this is you I’m talking to, Michael, you’ve always been very trusting of me, and I can only hope that will continue after I am deceased. To all others… you’ll just have to take my word. All I can do is assure you that I am deadly serious.
> 
> “So. The first thing you have to do is accept that you are in great danger, and will be for the rest of your life. There are now things that will be actively trying to kill you, due to your new role as Archivist, and Elias has plans for you that are little better.
> 
> “You will also be unable to relinquish the position or quit the Institute, finding you are supernaturally compelled to remain.
> 
> “In fact, it occurs to me that attempting to do so is probably the quickest and easiest way to establish the truth of what I am telling you, so I suggest you do so at the earliest possible opportunity.
> 
> “Things you need to be aware of:
> 
> “There exists in our world-”
> 
> “Are you finished?” A second voice calls out to Ms. Robinson. It’s unfamiliar to Martin but Jon immediately tenses up when he hears it.
> 
> “Jurgen! I told you to stay in the tunnels.”
> 
> “The gas main has been moved, the building should be ready to blow by now, and Agnes just arrived. If you don’t want to be blasted to smithereens, I really suggest you get on with your plan.”
> 
> “Hm. I wish I could’ve finished recording this in case it all goes sideways, but, oh well. You should get going, too. Wouldn’t want Elias to find you and bash your head in.”
> 
> “Oh, I doubt he’d kill me himself. Besides, I’m not afraid of him.”
> 
> “Bravado? Really”
> 
> “Mmmmm, it’s not _ bravado _ -”
> 
> “We’re wasting time. You said the gas main is all set?”
> 
> “Yes. Was a right pain to move it, too, I-”
> 
> “Jurgen. Goodbye.” The sound of quick footsteps can be heard, fading out into the distance.
> 
> “Good luck!” The man Martin now knows as Jurgen calls out behind her, sounding a little put-out. “Well. Don’t know what I expected from her, really.”

“Jon? Are you alright?” Jon’s eyes are still distant and a little stony, his hands balled into tight fists.

“Yes, sorry,” he replies, shaking himself a little, “Sorry, I just  _ hate  _ Jurgen Leitner. Never even seen his face and I know he has the world’s shittiest beard.”

“O-oh,” Martin says, a small laugh escaping his lips at the strange insult. “So what do we do with this? The recording, I mean.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jon asks, fixing Martin with a determined look. “We have to talk to Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next one will come out tuesday, june 16!


	6. These Colors Make my Eyes Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaa sorry this took so long to post!! im working full time now and it took WAY more out of me than i expected. hopefully i can update more regularly now that i've gotten into a good schedule! also, cw for spiral-related injuries

Someone is knocking on a door. No, not quite- someone is knocking on  _ the  _ door,  _ his  _ door, the one that belongs to… Michael, yes that’s his name, he’s certain of it. But then, Michael is certain of so few things these days.

It’s like this: a long time ago, when Michael could still remember what his name was, he would lie in bed, not quite asleep, and feel his arms drift away from the rest of him. He’d touch his face, and think,  _ is that me? Are those my hands? Have my fingers always been that sharp? _ It’s funny how little things change, how little one has to mold the mind to turn it into something entirely new. Michael still meets parts of himself that he hadn’t noticed were there, and of course, now there is so much more of him to meet.

So, he can’t really be sure whether the door is his or not, but he’s definitely going to open it.

“Are you sure we should be down here? It’s all a bit-”

“Don’t say it, Tim”

“-Spooky.” Jon sighs.

“Well, it’s the only lead we have. All the statements mentioning this ‘Michael’ character seem to point to- to mazes, a-and corridors, and a few even reference these tunnels specifically,” he explains for what feels like the 80th time today, “You said you wanted to help, alright? This is helping.”

“I actually think it’s kind of fun!” Sasha chimes in, “Snooping through old tunnels, breaking into historic architecture… I don’t know, it’s pretty cool!”

“Of course  _ you _ would think so,” Tim says fondly, giving Sasha an affectionate shove.

“You alright?” Jon says softly to Martin, leaving the other two to their bickering. Martin’s been awfully quiet this whole time, and maybe Jon isn’t the most observant person in the world, but even he can tell that’s not a good sign.

“Yeah,” Martin whispers back, “I’m just… nervous, I guess. I don’t like it down here.” Jon understands where he’s coming from. The tunnels are dark and twisting in a way that makes it hard to tell where the walls end and the damp air begins, the floor and ceiling paved in unknown variables. But where others might see the lack of knowledge as unnerving, Jon sees it as an opportunity, an itch. Like a rock he has to overturn to find the squirming, hideous things beneath. Of course, none of that is particularly useful when it comes to putting Martin at ease, so he just awkwardly hums in agreement and says,

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Martin looks unconvinced.

“I guess s-”

“ _ Jesus- _ ”

“Tim!”

“Holy shit.” Jon sprints forward to Tim and Sasha, eager to see what they’ve found, but even he isn’t prepared for what he sees when he points his torch at the ground. It’s… a man, sprawled across the ground sleeping, neon yellow ringlets of hair pooling around his head, locks branching into strands branching into split ends, like a fractal. His obscenely long fingernails curl in much the same way, their tips wickedly sharp. And directly above him, the same eye-searing yellow, is a completely impossible door. Jon has listened to the tapes; he knows exactly what to do. So he screws up his courage and knocks.

Okay, knocking was a bad idea. Looking back, with all the rich hindsight Jon has gleaned from literally two minutes, he has no idea why he did it. So now, two minutes wiser, he supposes he sort of deserves it when Michael wakes up and lets out the most ear-piercing laugh Jon’s ever heard.

“What the hell.” Tim says under his breath, all his good humor gone in an instant.

“I was sleeping,” The… being called Michael says in a voice that sounds like someone twisted up his voice box, “It’s  _ almost  _ as fun as not sleeping, I think.”

“Oh, sorry, we- we didn’t mean to disturb you,” Martin says, apologetic even when faced with this  _ thing _ . Michael laughs again and Jon wonders if he’s the only one getting a migraine.

“What do you know about the archives?” Jon demands, “You worked there, didn’t you?”

“Ah, but you’re a bit young for an Archivist, don’t you think? You  _ feel  _ like you’ve been marked by the Eye, though… or maybe- ha! Yes. The Spider.” Jon flinches and takes a step back.

“Gertrude mentioned you in some of her tapes,” Martin intervenes, “We were just- hoping you could tell us about the Institute.” Jon relaxes just a little, always grateful for Martin’s people skills, even if he’s hesitant to classify Michael as a person.

“ _ Gertrude _ underestimated me,” Michael sneers, “or, I guess, she underestimated Michael. She thought I wouldn’t discover any of it- the Entities, the Rituals- she thought I  _ trusted  _ her, just because I worried about her. But really, it wasn’t any sort of trust, or affection; it was just curiosity. Gertrude had always been a bit of a strange woman, and honestly I thought she was going a bit funny in the head-” he- it- laughs- “though I suppose I’m not really one to talk.” Martin nods, as if this is all perfectly normal.

“Go on,” he says, though Jon can hear a slight tremor in his voice. He feels a surge of warmth in his chest as he realises that Martin is really doing this for him, just to sate his burning hunger for knowledge.

“Well, obviously I found out about the Great Twisting,” Michael continues, “and I figured Gertrude had overlooked it. That was my first mistake- Gertrude overlooked nothing. I started doing research, on how to stop it, how to disrupt the ritual. But as I toiled, night after night, reading spiralling statements that left my mind unable to sleep, I discovered something  _ truly  _ incredible-” Michael’s voice fills with a horrible joy, the joy of one who has simply given up on understanding- “I needed a way out, a way to clear my head, an escape from the world I was so sure was about to end… and so I found one.  _ A Door _ . And I haven’t been the same ever since. You see, the truth doesn’t actually matter at all. There’s an old thought experiment- the experience machine- you have the opportunity to spend the rest of your life living out your wildest fantasies, but none of it is real. It’s all in your head. If you wouldn’t want to live that life, then you’re wrong! Everything is always in your head, subject to your  _ distorted  _ perceptions. Your mind is all you have, and it is so,  _ so  _ unreliable. Ha! Statement ends, I suppose.” Then, as an afterthought, “You kids don’t happen to need a way home, do you? Because I would happily provide one.” The four of them stare at Michael for a moment, Tim glaring, Martin gaping, and Sasha observing with careful curiosity. Jon mulls over Michael’s words, repeating them in his mind as if pressing ‘rewind’ on the conversation, and he finds himself getting angrier with each playthrough. It’s useless, it’s absolutely useless, and it only leaves him with more questions, and he is  _ not  _ about to let this whole endeavor be a goddamn waste. He’s not going to give up just because this thing is too hopped up on eldritch fear to give him a straight answer.

“No! No, I do not accept your  _ statement _ !” He exclaims, a little petulant, before he even really knows what he’s doing, “For one, what are the entities? The rituals, the great twisting, what are you  _ talking  _ about?” Michael’s smile flips upside down in the most literal sense of the phrase, and suddenly it uncurls one of its knifelike fingernails. It looks a bit like a cat unsheathing their claws, if the person observing the cat was high on every drug they’ve been warned not to try at school. “You give this bullshit cryptic statement, then have the  _ audacity _ to stand there looking pleased with yourself, like you gave some fucking life-changing advice when all we wanted was the  _ truth _ !” Jon is well aware that he’s only a teenager, and a rather small one at that, but at the moment he’s too worked up to care, to pick up on Martin’s warning glances, to notice Michael’s hand poised above his shoulder. “Michael.  _ Answer. My. Questions. _ ” But he doesn’t get the chance to voice any of those questions, because then Michael is  _ reaching into his skin _ .

It is, put simply, some of the worst pain Jon has ever endured. It feels like a needle plunging into his flesh, like a headache that gets worse the more he thinks about it, like a bone no one else will believe is broken. He gasps, and for the first time since he knocked on the door, Jon lowers his eyes from the monster in front of him. When he looks back up, the door is gone. If not for the blood soaking through his shirt, it might have never existed at all.

“My grandmother is going to murder me,” Jon grumbles morosely.

“ _ That’s _ what you’re worried about?!” Tim blanches.

“Seriously Jon, you need to go to A&E,” Sasha says worriedly.

“I can drive you! Just got my license the other day!”

“Tim, it’s a provisional license, you can’t drive without an instructor.”

“Bloody hell, Sasha, just trying to lighten the mood...”

Their arguing continues, the usually easy volley becoming more heavy and strained, echoing throughout the tunnel and around Jon’s head. It feels too much like the reverb of michael’s laugh, too much like the throbbing of pain in his shoulder, too much, and too loud, and-

“ _ Shut up! _ ” Jon’s shout should have bounced throughout the tunnel, but it cuts off abruptly as soon as it leaves his lips. Tim and Sasha swivel around to face him, Martin stopping in his tracks before he walks into them. “Sorry.” Jon mutters, though his tone is less than apologetic, “Let’s just get out of here.” 

They keep walking. The atmosphere is as tense as Jon’s iron grip on his shoulder, trying to keep the blood from seeping out from between his fingers. He didn’t think he’d miss Tim and Sasha’s incessant chatter, but the silence is oppressive. Jon can’t stop thinking about what a waste the entire trip has been- he’s learned virtually nothing and has gotten stabbed for his troubles. He wonders if he needs stitches. He wonders if he’ll have the nerve to tell his grandmother, even if he does.

The four of them reach the ladder, and Martin insists on climbing up behind Jon in case he falls while ascending one-handed. Jon points out that it won’t help anything if  _ both  _ of them fall, but Martin remains persistent and Jon doesn’t have the energy to argue. When they finally surface in the abandoned shop, Tim and Sasha give a brusque goodbye and leave immediately- presumably to go read the encyclopedia and remind themselves that ghosts aren't real, if they’re anything like Jon. Martin stays, though, and Jon finally gets a good look at him. His face is pale and he looks deeply shaken, hands fidgeting even more than they usually do. He glances down at Jon’s shoulder and the last bit of color drains from his face.

“Sasha’s right you know,” He says gently, his voice somehow steady and reassuring despite his appearance, “You should really go to the hospital. Or, if you aren’t going to do that, you could come over to my flat? I have a first aid kit, it’s definitely better than nothing. You don’t have to deal with this alone.” At some point during his proposal, Martin had taken Jon’s hand. It’s warm, and soft, and much larger than Jon’s own, and he wants nothing more than to let that hand lead him someplace safe, where they can patch Jon up and talk about things that aren’t neon-themed door monsters. And why would he be doing this, be offering this, be holding his hand so gently as if it were something precious, if he didn’t truly care about Jon?  _ Really, it wasn’t any sort of trust, or affection; it was just curiosity.  _ Michael’s words echo back through his head, one final head-splitting reverb.

“No thanks,” Jon says icily, a jolt of pain shooting down his arm as he snatches his hand away from Martin’s. “I can handle it myself.” He turns on his heel and tries not to think about Martin’s expression as he walks home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! the next chapter will be posted tuesday, july 7


	7. Everything that I am Not

Things get tense after the conversation with Michael. Martin hasn’t gone back into the tunnels, but he has a feeling Jon is exploring them. That’s what Jon does- explores and hunts and searches for knowledge and starts spending his spare time in the archives instead of with Martin. They were meant to visit Gertrude after talking to Michael. They were meant to be a team. It seems like Jon’s forgotten.

And so, Martin finds himself in the school library one day, during a rare free period. He’s always liked the school library- not because of the books or the somewhat stern librarians- but because it always seems so devoid of students. It’s not about the towering shelves, Martin goes there for the cold, empty air between them.

The library is not empty on this particular day. Walking aimlessly through the nonfiction section, Martin rounds a corner to see Jon, hunched over and scribbling furiously in his notebook. He doesn’t seem to notice Martin at first, and Martin clears his throat as he approaches, so as not to startle him.

“M-Martin!” Jon stage-whispers, jumping slightly (so much for not startling).

“Hey,” Martin says softly, “Can I sit here?” Jon narrows his eyes at Martin. Being regarded with genuine suspicion might have been something of a novelty for Martin, if it wasn’t coming from the boy he’s hopelessly crushing on. Cautiously, Jon scoots over and provides a space on the ground next to him for Martin to sit.

“What are you working on?” Martin asks, keeping his voice low.

“Archives stuff,” Jon responds. He snaps his notebook shut and stuffs it into his bag. There’s blood on his sleeve. Without thinking, Martin grabs his arm, fingers light and gentle.

“What happened?” he asks, concern colouring his voice unbidden. Jon pulls his arm away.

“Archives stuff.” He says again.  _ What the hell is that supposed to mean? _

“I don’t understand why you’re being so paranoid,” Martin tells him firmly. Jon actually laughs.

“You don't understand? You don’t _understand?_ ” he fixes Martin with an incredulous gaze, voice rising in volume. “Michael was just a normal person. Just an average man who was smart enough to discover a monster and stupid enough to become it. Don’t you see, _anyone_ could be-”

“Hey!” Jon’s tirade is interrupted suddenly by another voice. Two girls, roughly their same age, appear from behind the bookshelves and strut towards them, prefect lanyards swinging around their necks as they walk. “You should be more quiet in the library,” the taller one says. She’s wearing a blue headscarf and her eyes seem to bore right though Martin.

“Yeah,” the shorter one agrees. Her blonde hair is cropped into a style that Martin is surprised the school permits. “Are you even allowed to be here?”

“Yes,” Jon responds petulantly, “I was just doing some research. Martin was helping me.” Martin isn’t thrilled that Jon suspects him of being an eldritch monster, but he still finds it hard to stifle the warmth in his chest when he stands up for both of them. 

“What are you researching?” The short one asks. Her voice is sharp, but there’s an undercurrent of genuine curiosity there.

“Just… stuff relating to the Magnus Institute… you know, the building that burned down a while-”

“Stop.” The tall one interrupts, “You sound familiar. Have we written you up before.” It’s intimidating, the way she turns every question into a statement.

“He- he does audio recordings for the library,” Martin pipes up, Giving Jon a slight smile.  _ See? _ He tries to say,  _ I’m with you. You can trust me. _ “Maybe that’s why you recognise his voice?” Understanding dawns on the taller prefect’s face.

“Oh, yeah, I tried listening to those a while back. Never finished any. Couldn’t get over the narrator’s snooty little voice.” She responds, her poker face nothing short of immaculate. Jon laughs at that, and Martin ignores the pang of jealousy shooting up through his chest. “Well, I guess we’ll leave you alone now. Try to be more quiet,” She says. The taller one seems to do most of the talking for the two of them, the short one being the muscle of the pair. Martin questions why on Earth a couple of prefects would need someone to be the muscle. They turn to leave, Jon and Martin breathing a collective sigh of relief, when suddenly the shorter girl whips back around, staring down at Jon. 

“Is that blood on your arm?” She asks, her voice so low that it’s almost a growl.

“Um, yes,” Jon replies, paling a little. “Don’t- don’t worry though, it’s, uh, it’s mine.” The prefect’s eyes narrow.

“What did you say you were reading about?” She interrogates. Her companion places a hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to react.

“The- the Magnus Institute.” Jon swallows, “And specifically some of- of the, um, the strange happenings related to it. The Archives- I think there was something weird going on with the Archives.” The girl drops down to one knee so she’s eye-level with Jon, but it doesn’t make her any less intimidating. If anything, it looks like a predator hunkering down to stalk her prey. She looks Jon right in the eye.

“Do you know Clavin Benchley?” She asks, low and rumbling and dangerous. Jon shakes his head.

“N-no? Who is he? Who is Calvin Benchley?” The girl stands up and rocks back on her heels.

“Used to be my friend. Then… then he found something. Pretty sure he’s a monster now.” Her eyes widen. “I don’t know why I told you that. I’m gonna leave now.” She turns around and stalks out of the nonfiction aisle, her partner trailing behind.

There is silence, for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Martin asks finally.

“ _ Yes _ , Martin, I’m  _ fine. _ ” Jon answers.

“Why don’t you trust me?” Martin blurts out, after another moment of tense silence.

“What?” Jon responds, having the audacity to look surprised.

“You said anyone could be- could be involved, but then you just told two complete strangers, like, tons of information! I don’t get it, okay? I don’t understand.”

“I- I mean-” Jon stammers, “I needed to- I thought- they gave us information, too! When they walked up, it felt- it  _ felt  _ like they had knowledge. And I wanted- I needed- to get it out of them. I didn’t even have to ask if they were a threat. I just had to want to know.”

“And what, you don’t ‘want to know’ whether you can trust me?” Martin shoots back. He  _ knows _ he’s being petty, but he’s just so done with Jon’s cryptic nonsense at this point. If Jon wants to stop talking to him, he could at least be straightforward about it.

“No! No, it’s not- it’s not that!” Jon looks so horrified at the notion that Martin almost believes him. And here he’d thought Jon was a bad liar. “It’s just- I don’t- if some random strangers are- are secretly made out of bugs, or wax or something, I want to know, because- because then I can avoid them, but if- if you’re a monster, Martin, I don’t think I want to know, because-” he cuts himself off and looks down at the floor. “Because I don’t want to lose you,” he mumbles. Martin’s breath hitches. Hesitantly, he takes Jon’s hand.

“Jon,” He says quietly, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice. “I promise you, I am not made out of bugs, okay?” Jon’s gaze lowers back to the ground. He laughs softly and Martin’s heart swells with warmth for this strange, unpredictable boy.

“Okay,” he says, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayy thanks for reading! i usually don't write martin angst because i simply care him far too much but this week was an exception. the next chapter will be posted tuesday, july 14!


	8. What Do I Do With This?

It’s almost a week before they see the prefects again. The blonde one corners Jon in the hallway, glaring up at Jon while Martin and her companion eye each other warily. The prefect scares Jon, in a way rules and their enforcers usually don’t- while most of the student leaders are sheltered, affluent suck-ups, this one looks like she’s not above taking him out behind the school for a good fist to the ribs.

“You. What’s your name.” She demands.

“Uh- Jon- J-Jonathan Sims,” He stammers.

“Good. I’m Daisy. Ask me a question. Something I won’t wanna answer.”

“E-excuse me?” Jon asks, baffled by her brash instructions.

“Just do it, Sims,” she growls.

“Uh…” Jon wracks his brain for some question to ask, still trying to think past his confusion, and for some reason the words that come tumbling out of his mouth are, “What do you think about your partner?” Daisy blinks once at him, then begins to talk.

“Basira? She’s- she’s pretty, like, really pretty. And she’s smart, she understands stuff I’ll probably never grasp...” Her eyes don’t quite glaze over, they’re far too sharp for that, but her brows lose their permanent angry crease, and her hands relax from the fists they’ve been clenched in. “And she… she makes me feel safe, I guess.” Daisy finishes lamely, muscles tightening as whatever Jon did wears off. He glances up tentatively to gauge Basira’s reaction, and a tiny bit of awe has trickled into her unreadable expression.

“You were right,” She says.

“Yeah, well,” Daisy shrugs, “Definitely gonna kick you in the shins for that one later, Sims, but I guess you might be useful.”

“Sorry- heh- what’s going on?” Martin asks, a little frantic in his faux-cheer, his voice jumping up an octave. Jon very stubbornly Does Not find this endearing. “Literally any information whatsoever about the situation would be greatly appreciated!!” He adds pointedly.

“Y-yes, actually, I was wondering the same thing,” Jon agrees.

“I knew something was off about you the second you asked me a question. It was like I had to answer you- I had to tell the truth, but more than that, I just couldn’t stay silent.” Daisy pauses, letting her words sink in. “I don’t know what your deal is, and I  _ don’t  _ trust you,” she continues, “but me and Basira always have trouble getting Calvin Benchley to talk. Reckon you could be of use.”

“What, so you want us to- to interrogate someone?” Martin asks.

“Interrogate’s a strong word,” Daisy answers, looking noncommittal, “I mean, we’re just prefects. It’s not like we have any real authority. But then-” She cracks her knuckles- “It’s not like you really need authority to deal with someone like him.”

“Do we have a choice?” Jon asks, his voice wavering a bit. Daisy snarls.

“No, you-”

“Daisy.” Basira cuts in, “Yeah, of course you have a choice,” she says, “but we could really use your help. Both of you. Calvin is- he’s weird. We’re pretty sure he’s killed people. And we need a confession before we can deal with him.” Her voice is so matter-of-fact that Jon can almost imagine she’s telling him when the next maths exam will be, and not asking him to help “deal with” some sort of monster.

“Ah, he’s killed people, has he?” Martin pipes up, still sounding incredulous, “and that’s supposed to sweeten the deal for us, is it?” Basira just looks at him.

“Yeah.”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“We’ll do it.” Jon says suddenly, before he can stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

“What?” Martin blanches.

“It’ll be fine,” Jon reassures him, “We’ll ask Tim and Sasha to come along, and my… some other people I know. It can’t be worse than Michael, right?” He tries for a comforting smile, but judging from Martin’s expression it probably looks more like a grimace.

“O-okay,” Martin says warily, “If you’re doing this, I’m coming with you. But we need to be careful.” Jon tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little faster at that.  _ If you’re doing this, I’m coming with you. _

“Good.” Basira says, still straight-faced and cold. “Meet us at this location-” she hands Jon a slip of paper, and he immediately palms it off to Martin, knowing the other boy will keep track of it much better than him- “at 7:00 pm on Friday. Tell your parents you’re staying over at a friend’s house or something. Bring something to record the confession with. We’ll discuss the rest of the plan there. If you bring others-” She looks them each in the eye, first Martin, then Jon- “Make. Sure. That they’re trustworthy.”

“Is this what all prefects do?” Martin swallows.

“Nah,” Daisy responds, “We don’t do this ‘cause we’re prefects. Just ‘cause we’re people.” The two girls turn to leave, when Daisy turns back around one more time, uncannily similar to their first meeting. Maybe Daisy just goes around almost walking away from everyone she meets for dramatic effect.

“One more thing,” she says, “This is serious. It’s like a stakeout, okay? It is not. A fucking-”

“Sleepover!!!!” Georgie crows as she parks her bright blue van next to the abandoned warehouse. She’s the oldest of the group by a small margin, and the only one that can drive. Jon still isn’t sure if she's doing so entirely legally. He thinks maybe Melanie stole the car.

“Georgie, we are literally here to question and presumably kill a monster. This is not a sleepover,” Jon tells her, jumping out of the van and onto the cracked pavement.

“Oh my god, what has my life become!” Tim laughs, “What kind of  _ Lord of the Flies  _ horror movie bullshit is this!”

“It’s exciting, is what it is; we’re like the  _ Scooby Doo _ gang,” Sasha grins. Out of nowhere, Basira’s voice comes,

“Tim would be the dog.” The group all goes through varying degrees of jumping out of their skin at her sudden appearance, except for Georgie, who just laughs.

“I would not be Scooby!” Tim whines, “I’d be Fred, for sure. You  _ know  _ Fred gets  _ all  _ the ladies.”

“Wasn’t he supposed to be having a thing with shaggy…?” Melanie chimes in.

“Even better!” Tim exclaims with a theatrical waggle of his eyebrows.

“What are they talking about?” Jon says softly to Martin as the group continues their banter, “I have never seen  _ Scooby Doo _ .” Martin laughs quietly at that, giving Jon a small smile that makes his heart flutter. 

After everyone gets their sleeping bags set up, there’s not much to do besides wait and talk. There’s a bit of a nervous energy in the air, but it’s no match for the powerful spunky naivety of eight teenagers about to do something phenomenally stupid. Melanie looks right at home, gazing around the warehouse with open wonder and maybe a little nostalgia.

“I do some stuff like this with the AV club,” she explains, and Jon wonders if she’s the only person in the world who can sound cool while saying the phrase ‘AV club’, “Filming amateur horror movies and stuff. I got the local video store to give out a couple copies, and people really like it,” she adds smugly. Jon shifts a little closer to Martin. He’s never been exactly comfortable socialising like this, and the strange mix of anxiety and anticipation isn’t really helping. Every time Martin throws his head back in laughter, the weak sunlight filters through his auburn hair, making it shine like bronze. Every time he sways a little closer to Jon (on accident, Jon assumes) he can feel the warmth radiating from him, making his breath hitch.  _ Pull yourself together, Sims _ , he berates himself.

Once the sun has almost set, just a few meager rays peeking out behind the horizon, Daisy calls their attention.

“Okay, here’s our plan:” she begins, staring them all down with her sharp, wolfish eyes. Whether they’re her pack or her prey, Jon can’t decide. “Calvin usually comes here on Friday nights. Likes to beat the shit out of younger kids. Sims, you got a recorder?”

“Uh- Uhm- yes,” He stammers, fumbling around for the tape he’s nicked from the library.

“Good.” She says. “You’re gonna go in first, get him to tell you what he’s been doing here. Use your spooky question powers or whatever, I don’t care. Then, when you’re finished, I’ll come in, and I’ll- I’ll deal with him. It. I’ll deal with it. Once we have a confession, it should be easy to claim self-defense. As for you lot,” she addresses the rest of the group, “You’re backup, in case shit goes sideways. But that won’t happen,” she says, eyes hard. “It’s my problem. I can take it.” She finishes her speech, a somber silence overtaking the group. They eat dinner, exchanging few words- though “dinner” is somewhat of an overstatement- most of them end up eating the extra sandwiches that Martin packed. Finally they lay down one by one in their sleeping bags, all except for Daisy and Basira, who are taking the first watch. The warehouse is huge, but by some unspoken agreement they sleep almost huddled together. Jon is so close to Martin he can feel warm puffs of air from where the other boy sleeps. He tells himself it’s a precaution, safety in numbers. Jon knows sleep isn’t something that’s going to happen tonight, and he almost manages to convince himself that that’s why he stays awake memorising every curve and freckle of Martin’s face. Almost. Finally, after what feels like hours, Jon forces his eyes shut, and buries his face in the sleeping bag, resigning himself to an uneasy rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! the gang is all together now :) is it realistic for teens in the 90s to talk openly about sexuality? no! did britain even have video stores? hell if i know! am i gonna put it in my fic anyways? fuck yeah!  
> the next chapter will be uploaded tuesday, july 21.


	9. God, I Just Want to Lay Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD so much has happened since i last posted. i will HOPEFULLY have another chapter ready next Thursday but no promises.   
> Also, TW for violence in this chapter

Martin wakes to a quick tapping and quicker breathing. It always takes a moment for him to come back to himself, for sleep to fade away like mist on a cold windowpane. The ground beneath him is hard, the air drafty and cold, and someone is still tapping lightly on his shoulder.

“Martin.” they whisper, barely a breath into his ear, and before Martin can think he’s saying,

“Jon?” The word is immediately met with a cacophony of shushes from the people around him, their newly-defined silhouettes blurring in the darkness. 

“Calvin is here,” Jon whispers, his breath warm against Martin’s cheek. Martin focuses on this detail for all of three seconds before he remembers who Calvin is and starts to panic.

“Oh, God,” he breathes, voice much softer now, “Um, okay, what do we do?”

“I’m going to ask him,” Jon says, much too calm for the words coming out of his mouth, “I’m going to ask him about what he’s doing. That should… hold him, for a bit. Then Daisy will come and probably- I don’t know.” Martin starts to shake his head, still foggy and disoriented. “But Martin.” Jon interrupts his thoughts, all the careful indifference stripped away and replaced by softness, “I…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his hand comes up to cup Martin’s cheek, to ghost over his temple, to settle in his hair.

“Good luck,” Martin breathes into the air between them, and means it.

“Thanks,” Jon says, and clicks on his tape recorder.

The night is quiet as Jon treads softly towards the muted rustling, heavy breathing and the occasional troubling  _ thump _ . Martin watches his back recede into the darkness, feeling his nerves alight with anxiety. All of a sudden it feels childish and trivial, like they’re little kids sneaking around the house past their bedtime. Martin can’t seem to wrap his head fully around the stakes here.

“Calvin Benchley.” Jon's voice comes, interrupting Martin’s thoughts. He sounds certain but wavering, not like someone who’s unsure of their knowledge, rather someone who knows that knowledge won’t save them. Some rustling, and then:

“Don’t you fucking-”

“What happened to you, Calvin?” Jon interrupts, conversationally. There’s silence for a moment before the static becomes noticeable, and it’s much longer before Calvin chokes out an answer. The static hangs maliciously in the still air for what feels like ages. Then, abruptly, he begins to speak.

“...Dunno. Not really. It all started at that construction site. Awful things happen at places like that- freak accidents, you know? Some CEO skimps on safety equipment to save a couple bucks, even if it won’t make a dent in his disgusting fortune in the long run. That’s all it is, really, just senseless violence. Guess the… futility of it really got to a couple of the workers, ‘cause when I made my way through that fence it was a bloodbath.” Calvin is quiet for a moment, then he continues, his voice much more strained. “I don’t… know… whether the violence summoned the creature, or if the thing spurred the fight. It was standing over the workers’ bodies when I came in. It glanced up at me, with nothing behind its eyes, and its expression remained stagnant even as it bent down, curling its long, bloody fingers around a jagged piece of glass. It was like it was mechanical, like it was no different from the rusted construction vehicles scattered about the site. Its eyes were so vacant, I wasn’t sure whether or not it was going to attack me. The thing began to walk towards me, and all of a sudden I felt such a powerful urge to  _ hurt  _ someone, for no reason at all. I was instantly so aware of my own body, my fingernails, the glass laying broken at my feet. Every possible weapon seemed to thrum with potential, to sing of how simple it would be to  _ slice  _ and  _ cut  _ and  _ kill _ . The song was so captivating I barely noticed when the creature started to whisper in my ear. “ _ It would be so easy, _ ” It said, “ _ You could do it, you could end a life, right here and now. You could pick up a shard of glass and  _ hurt  _ somebody _ .” I remained utterly still, letting its words sit in my mind. That’s how  _ she _ found me, your angry little huntress. As soon as I saw her, I knew I was going to hurt her. My arms had a weight to them, a tentative itch like they knew they had become weapons. I wasted no time in lunging for her, my eyes catching on the broken fence. I shoved as hard as I could, and felt her skin give way to the jagged metal. She slumped forward, the mess I made of her back bleeding heavily, but not before letting out a cry of agony. So much pain, and I had barely lifted a finger. It was intoxicating. I started to hurt people after that, and it was always simple. I’m particularly fond of glass: it’s mundane, but it can do some real damage. The creature never went away, either. It’s still with me, gaining new scars with every strike of my knife, whispering secret truths into my ear.” The static fades, and Martin feels himself come back to reality, as well as the screaming panic that seems to have taken up residence somewhere in his ribs. Calvin’s posture doesn’t straighten, his angles don’t become sharp and hostile; they remain dull and relaxed as he takes a bread knife out of his pocket. He eyes the knife with casual disinterest, then without warning he strikes forward, freakishly fast, slicing Jon across the forearm as the other boy scurries away a moment too slow. He lunges for a second attack, but Daisy appears behind him in an instant, her own knife drawn and pressed against Calvin’s neck. 

“Don’t fucking move.” She says simply, and he complies, his hand relaxing around his weapon as it clatters to the floor. Martin squints into the darkness, trying to find Jon where he hides in one of the warehouse’s deep shadows. Daisy’s knuckles are white around her knife, fear and hunger making up equal parts of her pupils. She screws her eyes shut, and Martin wants so badly to cover his own, but it’s like a car crash. He keeps his eyes locked on the throat he’s sure will soon be slit. Daisy hesitates, just for a split second. Her ears twitch. Then in a single motion she shoves Calvin away and slashes into the dark behind her, the sound of tearing flesh deafening against the silence. Calvin drops to the floor like his strings have been cut, and Martin hears another thud from the darkness behind Daisy. For a moment, the tension still buzzes through the warehouse, then Daisy relaxes, and turns on her flashlight. 

The collective sigh of relief is palpable. Flashlights click on one by one until the building is flooded with light. Jon emerges cautiously from the shadows, practically sprinting over to Martin when he sees that the coast is clear. Martin curls an arm around him wordlessly and Jon nestles into his side.

“We should probably take him to the hospital,” Daisy says, nodding towards Calvin’s unconscious body, “Or the police.” 

“He’s alive?” Comes Melanie’s incredulous voice from behind Martin.

“I mean, yeah,” Basira responds, “What, did you think we were just going to kill someone.” The warehouse is silent. “...Right… Let’s file  _ that  _ one under ‘yikes’.”

“He wasn’t too far gone,” Daisy chimes in, “Just had to kill the thing that was messing him up. We should keep an eye on him, though.” Basira nods. 

“Daisy and I can take care of him. You guys get some rest, yeah?” The group nods, varying degrees of dumbfounded, as the two prefects carry Calvin, somewhat awkwardly, to Basira’s waiting car.

“...Well then.” Tim is the first to speak.

“We really did jump right to murder, didn’t we?” Georgie muses, Sasha nodding thoughtfully. Jon shifts by Martin’s side and he directs his attention to the smaller boy.

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, ducking away from the others’ conversation. His arm doesn’t look too bad, definitely not as serious as some of the other injuries he’s sustained while… ghost hunting? Is that what they do?

“Yes,” Jon answers with a small smile, “Just a scratch.” 

Martin roots around his bag for the first-aid supplies he’d nicked from the cupboard under the sink and makes quick work of the wound. By the time they’re finished, Melanie has created something vaguely approximating hot chocolate out of water, cacao, and a fire tended to by Tim. Sasha ends up finding a ladder tucked away into a corner, and the group takes their mugs of Dubious Liquid a la Melanie up to the corrugated tin roof of the warehouse.

When Martin sits down with the others, legs dangling off the side of the building, dawn is just beginning to peek timidly over the horizon. The air is still frosty and grey with night, and Jon returns to his seemingly default position under Martin’s arm. Conversation flows easily throughout the group, and Martin realises with a start that he has  _ friends _ . In much the same way that he suddenly found himself breaking into abandoned buildings and hunting monsters, he’s stumbled into a group of friends.

“We should do this again sometime!” Georgie suggests.

“Oooh, yes!” Melanie pipes up, “We could do a séance!” 

“Can we not just go to like,  _ one _ normal house party,” Tim whines.

“Ah, Tim,” Georgie says wisely, “You’re part of the mystery gang now. You can never be normal again.” The group’s combined laughter echoes out onto the streets below, and for once, there is no sinister undertone to taint it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by found family and my weekly escapades where i go for a walk at night and climb things i should not be climbing. this chapter ended up getting a little bit heavy so the next few will definitely have a lot of fluff. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> i am once again projecting onto jon. shut up. i actually really liked jon right from the get go because i also sort of dislike people who cause delays. bitches of the world unite i guess.   
> fair warning, i have never been to england nor was i alive in the 90s so this might be wildly inaccurate. i have some Very Funky ideas though! the next chapter will come out on the 19th, a week from today


End file.
